Ruthless Rival

"Did you want a wife who stayed home?" I ask.

"You know how it is for women who marry wealthy men. They have to look the part. They have to play the part. They don’t earn a salary, but they’re working."

"Like being a politician’s wife. All smiling at assholes and support your husband." I swallow another bite. "Is that what you wanted?"

"No. It was inevitable. My duty. Like having children to carry on the family name."

"Now?"

"Is that a proposition?" he asks.

"What if it was?"

"I’d say take off your clothes."

"Really?"

"No. Not after my father… You know Opal’s history."

Yes, his father knocked up his secretary. Paid her off to keep quiet. Kept them living a luxe life, even after he died, so long as her mom kept the secret.

Then her mom died, and Opal discovered the truth and walked into Simon’s life.

It’s almost as fucked up as my history.

"If I have kids, I’m giving them my name," I say.

"A hyphen?"

"Moyer-Pierce."

"Fair." He offers his hand.

"We’re negotiating."

"We’re fucking. It’s a possibility."

That’s true. But he’s kidding.

Isn’t he?

I shake. Try not to consider the implications. Or imagine our hypothetical children.

He’s tall and broad. My biological father was the same. My mom is tiny.

I’m in between.

Would our kids be tall?

Would they have his blue eyes? My tight curls? Is that even possible, genetically?

Fuck.

I need to discuss something else. Something less dangerous. "Opal seems like a good kid."

"She is. You’d like her. When she’s not meddling."

"We both have fucked-up families."

"You’re both strong and demanding."

"And we love art?"

"I’m not sure she loves it. She’s taking the class because I insisted she do something productive with her summer."

"What does she love?"

"Besides making my life difficult?" he asks.

"You’re the one giving her a curfew and mandatory summer classes."

"I don’t want her getting into trouble."

"Rules give her something to rebel against."

"So she comes home at twelve thirty and takes an art class she doesn’t care about. Better than taking ecstasy and sleeping with strangers."

"You give her minor rules on purpose?" I ask.

"How do you think I got my position?"

"Negotiating with your own sister." I shake my head. "Cold."

"Smart." He smiles.

My heart thuds against my chest. He has such a handsome smile. It lights up his blue eyes. It turns the world into a beautiful place.

It sends desire straight to my core.

I want to mount him.

Right here.

Right now.

Can he go again? It’s been a while now. Almost an hour.

Some guys take longer.

Some guys are faster.

Knowing Simon—

He’s probably Super Cock. Ready in an instant, ready for as long as I want, completely and totally in control of every part of his body.

Can I make him lose control?

How would I do it?

I don’t usually think about sucking guys off. I don’t mind it. I even enjoy it with guys I like.

But I don’t get off on it.

I don’t think about it.

I don’t recall the act or envision future opportunities when I fantasize.

So why am I thinking about dropping to my knees and trying to make Simon lose control?

Here.

In a limo.

While he’s on a conference call.

Or something else that demands his composure.

Ahem.

"You’re off somewhere again," he says. "But it’s different this time."

"How?"

"Something you want. Before, it was bad. Something that hurt."

How can he tell?

"It was."

I take another bite to buy myself time to explain, but I don’t have an explanation. Only the truth. And I’m not ready to admit that. "You have this signature expression. This amused half-smile." I try to copy the gesture, but it’s hard without a mirror. "Like you’re so above it all, you're amused by other people's effort."

"Is that really what you think of me?"

Not right now. "Sometimes."

"Sometimes, I am. You are too."

"It's not a happy thing."

"For me either."

It's not?

"It's lonely. Being removed."

"You're lonely?"

"Yes."

"I didn't think you'd say that." I take one last bite. The food is great. Filling. Sex may not be exercise, but it shares plenty of traits. I don't want to be stuffed. "Why aren't you married?"

"Fuck, Vanessa? Am I lonely? Why am I not married? What are you going to ask next?"

"Your biggest regret."

His eyes flit to the window. The view of midtown. "Not protecting Bash."

"Wasn't he in an accident?"

He doesn't answer the question. "I knew he was doing something stupid. I didn't stop him. Maybe I couldn't have stopped him, but I could have tried harder."

Huh?

"As for the marriage… I thought I'd follow my father's model. Find someone who fit the role of Mrs. Simon Pierce. I tried, for a while, but I never felt anything. I went on dates. I got to know women. I asked some to be my girlfriend. But I always knew, deep down, I didn't feel what I was supposed to feel. I enjoyed their company, I enjoyed the sex, I even liked knowing who I'd take to events, what I'd do on Saturday night. But I never wanted more."

"What more?"

"My housekeeper had a test—"